


Season 12 Redux

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 12, BAMF Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Does Not Become Human Again, Ensemble Cast, Gen, M/M, No Mary Winchester, Post-Season/Series 12, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Look, S12 had a few good moments, but narratively, it was the weakest season of SPN there has ever been. I do not say that lightly; I have been watching this show since it started airing, I've been a dedicated fan for more than half my life.I hated last season. It was badly written, no one was in character, and the finale was terrible. I can't believe season 12 made it to air. I wrote this, because I can't stand the thought of not addressing that.Actual summary: Immediately after the S12 finale, Chuck and Amara realise how terrible of an idea it was to bring Mary back. How will Dean cope, having to relive a whole year? Can he finally allow himself to have something he wants, knowing he might lose it at any time?





	1. All Along the Watchtower

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 1-4: Prologue  
> Chapters 5-?: Season 12 Redux

 

 

**THEN**

 

Dean can feel the dirt digging into his knees. He places a hand against Cas’ supernaturally cold body, gentle at first, then grasping tightly. Sam isn’t here anymore... where did he go? Dean can’t remember, can’t think past the rushing groan in his head, because this is not real. It can’t be. It’s a fear djinn, a nightmare, or he’s been roofied and he’s having a real bad trip. Cas isn’t dead, he’s in the wind somewhere with Kelly, and Dean is going to kick his feathery ass when he finds him...

But he’s always been stronger than that kind of denial. Dean can feel a twinge in his left shoulder, where the white scar of Cas’ handprint still sits, and stares at the scorch of broken, tatty wings surrounding his best friend in a macabre shroud.

Cas is gone.

The only question now has to be, how does Dean get him back? They never did find out where angels go when they die. So that’s priority number one. Find an angel, or a reaper, hell; both, and find out. Then, he’s gonna need a portal to get there, and- fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Crowley and Rowena are both gone. Destroyed utterly, just like everyone that tries to help a Winchester. The bunker might have something they could use, but it would have been faster if Dean could rely on their expertise. Fuck! No, focus. It’s a setback, but it’s okay. Dean can research, and he will beg, kill or bribe for ingredients. Or maybe he can just persuade a reaper to take him there? Better get Jody to do it. Dean killed Death, and any Winchester is kinda tarred with the same ‘won’t stay dead’ brush. But if Jody makes contact on his behalf, Dean can grab the reaper afterwards and force it to take him to wherever Cas is now.

Ok, so he has a plan. They need to get Cas’ body into Baby, and get the fuck out of here. Where the hell is _Sam?_

Dean turns, sees the house behind him and remembers. The nephilim. For fuck’s sake. Now is the worst possible time for him to give a single damn for literal Satan spawn. The last baby they encountered grew into an ancient, primordial being that nearly destroyed the universe. Dean really doesn't have time for more of that shit. But they can hardly walk away now. Ok, so new plan: they bundle up the baby, and Cas, _then_ get out of here. What’s taking Sam so damn long? They don’t know if getting Cas back from wherever is time-sensitive. They need to get back to the bunker and research, right the fuck now.

Before Dean can so much as yell out for his slow-poke brother, there is a light; bright white and enough to force his eyes closed. An angel? He opens his eyes as soon as there’s no risk of blindness; no one is taking Cas’ body from him. Dean will tear them limb from limb if they try. He senses the presence behind him, and swings his head back round to see who it is, as he kneels in the dirt and clutches onto his best friend.

It’s _Amara_.

Dean lets out a heavy breath, so fucking relieved he feels like he could pass out. He never thought he could ever be so eager to see the Darkness. But thank God, Dean will literally thank Chuck for this. The primordial siblings said they would be gone for a long time - but hell, maybe they have been, for all he knows time might move faster in whatever dimension they were in. But wait, if it was Amara that arrived, why the flash of burning bright light...?

She interrupts his thoughts with a frown; “This was not what I had envisioned.”

Amara’s voice is quiet and measured, like always, but Dean somehow knows she is Super Pissed Off. She takes in the subdued scene, the lone house, Dean himself, then glares at Cas’ dead body like the angel no longer in it just flipped her off. When she returns her glare to Dean, her face softens. She takes a step towards him, the ruffles of her long black dress swishing together harmoniously.

“I am sorry.” she says, her eyes sorrowful and honest, and Dean believes her.

But right now Dean needs her powers, not her pity.

“Can you bring him back?” He asks, immediately trying to calculate how he could offer to repay her. He’ll do anything, anything for her, if she only brings Cas back.

Amara pauses, tilting her head as though listening to something Dean can’t hear. But ultimately she shakes his fragile hopes away: “Not by myself.”

“Who do you need? What do you need-” Desperation makes Dean rash. He’d never beg like this for anyone, except Sam and Cas. Not even for his parents, no. Not anymore.

She holds up her hand to stop him, in the universal indicator for ‘wait’, and Dean stops babbling. But only because he can feel hysteria welling up inside him. He needs to remain focused, alert, for Cas. He can't break down, not yet.

“I can only apologise.” Amara begins, “Dean, when I resurrected Mary, I did so believing she... cared for you. I am so sorry that was not the case. I felt your pain, but Chuck and I. We needed. I-”

Dean watches her struggle and surprises himself with how much he doesn’t want her to suffer. They were enemies once, but no longer.

“You needed space. I get it, it’s okay. Mary has Free Will, she made her own choices.” Dean says, and lets himself acknowledge that Mary’s choices? Always went against what was best for her family.

Amara is right- Mary doesn’t give a fuck about him, or Sam. She only ever cared for herself. They represented a world and upbringing she resented, but then she couldn't cope as a civilian either. Neither of them had been good enough for her, despite all the people they had saved, and she had manipulated them as though they were just another mark. They were her sons, and she didn't have an ounce of compassion for what they had suffered, instead resenting them for tainting her 'perfect' imaginary memory of family with John, before she died. Mary was cruel, selfish and cold. A part of Dean will always love her, but the part that hates her is bigger. And he does; he hates her. Is this what Crowley felt like? All the time? God, no wonder he was so fucked up about Rowena. Dean’s only been hating his mother for a few months. Crowley had to suffer through this feeling for centuries. But none of that matters now. Mary is gone and Dean has more important things to deal with; namely, getting Cas, his real family, back to the land of the living.

“You are not at fault. You are worthy of love, Dean Winchester.” Amara says, firmly. “I will correct my mistake.”

Before Dean can ask how, or why she feels the need to intervene, there is a familiar tug around his gut, one he has not felt since Angel Air was no longer a possibility. Everything around him spins, and Dean closes his eyes against the rush, not wanting to vomit from motion sickness. It’s over in seconds.

He comes back to himself, and he is now standing, no longer beside the house and Cas’ body, but in the garden where he persuaded Amara not to go through with her diabolical plan. He looks down at himself in surprise; his clothes have changed. It may be a dream, or a vision, but it feels very real. Have they gone back in time? Dean registers that Chuck is there, also in the same clothes as that day, as he flexes his fingers, noting the lack of bruises he'd recently sustained. Amara seems to confirm their little time-skip with a nod of her regal head.

Chuck waves a hand, almost lazily, and there is suddenly a picnic bench beside him. Dean lets himself sit down, too tired to protest, resting one arm on the table. His is exhausted, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, so he can find a way to save Cas. Thankfully, Chuck and Amara quickly come to join him, as Chuck says;

“We gotta talk.”


	2. Alpha and Omega Part I

Dean swallows roughly, emotions too raw to really take this in. Assuming they've travelled through time may be a leap too far. It's possible they’re just in a pocket dimension. Something like the Beautiful Room Zachariah once trapped him in, when the angels wanted him to be Michael's vessel. How can Dean trust that they went back in time?  More importantly, will they send him back after this talk? Back to a world without Cas? He won’t let them. He’s Dean Winchester. He’ll find a way. If he’s in the past, he has to stay here, protect Sam, kill those British sons of bitches and _save Cas_. His brain is whirling a mile a minute, trying to think of bargaining chips to use against God.

Chuck smiles indulgently at him, amused. Not for the first time, Dean gets the feeling Chuck knows exactly what he's thinking. Dean doesn’t give a fuck. He’s getting Cas back, no matter what. He opens his mouth to say so, but Chuck stops him.

“I have no intention of keeping Castiel from you. You can be assured, Castiel will be alive after we are done here.” Chuck reassures him, a warm smile on his face.

Clearly, he's trying to be reassuring, and it could be a ploy, but Dean wants so badly to believe it. Cas has always been a favourite of God's. He's already resurrected Cas more than once. It's not like Chuck _can't_ do it, if He wants to, and fuck, does Dean hope that Chuck wants Cas alive. Dean lets out a ragged breath. Good. That’s- it’s good. It’s fucking fantastic, if only he could let himself believe it. Chuck has lied to them before, but Dean is going to choose to believe it, for the moment. Unless Chuck starts acting suspiciously. Because there are other questions Dean needs answering, so he's going to shelve his worry for now.

Amara speaks next, her long tresses falling attractively round her shoulders as she moves. (He’s sitting at a picnic table with God and the Darkness. Dean’s life is absurd.)

“This was not my intention. To bring you more pain. Your mother was supposed to cherish you. I thought- I hoped...” Amara trails off, looking frustrated, and sorrowful on his behalf. Dean doesn’t want to be thought of like this- like he’s weak and desperate for affection, like an abused puppy. He’s a grown man, a warrior. He doesn’t need to be coddled.

“It’s not weak to crave intimacy!" Amara scolds him, again demonstrating her eerie ability to see into his mind. "It's not _unreasonable_  to want your wishes to be acknowledged and respected! I thought a mother was supposed to care for your well-being, in action, not just petty words. Words mean nothing without accompanying action.”

Amara glares furiously, but Dean knows she’s pissed _for_ him, not _at_ him. It’s all very surreal. The year before last, she was obsessed with him, and now Amara is a champion for Dean’s free will? What the hell?

Chuck chooses this moment to break in.

“We can only apologise. I shouldn’t have done this to you.” Chuck says, grimly, as if he’s waiting for a blow. Dean can almost feel his hackles rise. What the fuck has God done now?

“Done what?” Dean barks, barely restraining himself from launching over the table to punch God in the face. He really hates Chuck sometimes. Chuck gave up on his children, leaving them to go quietly crazy, as they plotted how to bring about His will, in an effort to bring Him home. God left his kids without Free Will, giving them bullshit orders to follow that would result in the deaths of billions, so he could go and play at being human. Then when confronted with his mess, He refused to clean it up. As far as Dean is concerned, Chuck is a deadbeat with no spine. Well, he's just light in his true form, so he literally has no spine, but no metaphorical spine either. Dean glares at the deity, annoyed by his own rambling thoughts.

“I knew Mary wasn’t a real mother." Says Chuck, "I know everyone’s personalities, after all. I know the souls of all my creations. I shouldn’t have let Amara bring her back. But I don’t know exactly the outcome of everything- you know that. There’s Free Will. I couldn’t predict Mary would set off this chain of events. And I didn’t foresee an archangel nephilim.” Chuck somehow sounds apologetic, frightened of Dean’s reaction, and disgusted by the thought of his grandchild by Lucifer, all at once.

“So little Lucifer Jr won’t bring about World Peace then? Gee, what a shocker.” Dean drawls, sarcastically. Fuck, he knew Kelly should have killed that monster, while it was still only a tiny ball of cells with no power. Why does _no one_ ever fucking listen to him?

Chuck snorts. Amara looks pensive, however.

“Perhaps we can prevent many disasters here. I could change you, Dean.” She looks at him with her big, soulful eyes, and for a minute Dean is reminded of Sam. How bizarre. Sam is nothing like Amara.

Dean blinks, blindsided. Then he focuses in on her words, not her face. Change him into what? And what has that got to do with the nephilism or Cas?

“Change me... how?” Dean asks cautiously. Best not to fly off the handle when faced with the two most powerful primordial beings in the universe, unless he absolutely has to.

He gets no answer, because everything descends into chaos.

“Oh, shit!” Chuck curses, and lunges forward, shoving his hand into- actually into, through clothing and skin- Dean’s chest with no warning. Dean chokes, too surprised by the action to scream at the pain. Chuck is fumbling about in his chest cavity, tearing Dean’s organs, ripping him apart. The pain is incredible. Dean squirms, trying fruitlessly to escape, tears streaming down his face - then he’s yelling, his vision swimming, Amara is screaming shrilly from high above him, and everything goes black.


	3. Alpha and Omega Part II

Dean comes to lying in the grass. His vision blurry, he closes his eyes, just breathes and listens, assessing what he knows. Chuck went all reverse-Alien-facehugger on him, for no reason. Is he dead then? Pit or Penthouse? Please not “the Void” or Purgatory. Although. Maybe he could find Benny...?

“He’s awake.” Amara says, clear as a whistle.

Ah, not dead then. Dean blinks, opening his eyes. They’re still in the garden. He looks down, at his own body. He is expecting to relive a scene from his own past, when Hellhounds shredded him, but his clothing and skin is intact: pristine in fact. There’s not a single scratch on him.

Chuck is standing by his feet, Amara kneeling over him in concern. She looks as though she wants to ask him how he’s feeling, but restrains herself. Her lips thin with repressed anger and worry. Clearly she still cares for him a great deal, and Dean is glad of it, now that she's no longer trying to 'bond' with him. Dean glares up at Chuck, who only shrugs, self-deprecatingly.

“Rowena’s soul-bomb. We forgot to deactivate it. Sorry.”

Dean thumps his head back into the grass. Of fucking course they did. At least he has confirmation they’re in the past, now, though he wishes the deactivation of the bomb had been as painless as the first time around, when Chuck simply waved a hand and sent the spirits to Heaven.

He lies in the grass for a minute, trying to remember all the details of that bitch breaking into the bunker and taking Sam. Then he sits up.

“I gotta warn Sam. He’s about to be abducted, and they all think I’m dead.” It’s a tone that brooks no argument, but predictably, Chuck opens his mouth anyway. Dean scowls.

“It’s okay. We suspended time. Everything is frozen except for us.”

Dean blinks, again reminded of who he’s talking to. They... suspended time? Of course they did. Still, he’s gotta ask; “ _Everything_ is frozen?”

Chuck shuffles, embarrassed. “Well, everything that relies on linear time. Lucifer is still trying to break free from his captivity, for example. He’s in Crowley’s Earth base. He isn’t having much luck. And there are a few pagan deities still awake. They’re actually rather pleased. The Oneiroi especially.”

“The Aww-nee-ree?” Dean asks, rising to his feet, baffled. “Who-”

Amara clears her throat pointedly. Right, bigger fish to fry. They settle back into their seats again.

“So, Lucifer. You’re not going to do something about that? Really?” Dean pokes the bear, because he can’t not. They need to remove Lucifer from the equation, but how can they shove his ass into another dimension, without the nephilim creating a gateway?

Chuck sighs. Amara raises one delicate eyebrow. Chuck sighs again, louder.

“Come on!” Dean shouts, “Clean up your mess!”

Chuck scowls at him, but he clicks his fingers and Lucifer is suddenly there, wearing his old familiar vessel. Dean lurches backward, startled, but he remains seated, by virtue of his own reflexes. Lucifer ignores him, anyway, looking down at his own arms, as if expecting to see chains there. Knowing Crowley, Lucifer was probably just in some dank dungeon somewhere, before he escaped to mess up their lives even more.

“I would have broken free eventually,” Lucifer hisses, ungrateful as usual, and God hums in response. Chuck turns to look at Amara, and they communicate silently. Okay, seriously, how long was their time together while a year passed on Earth? They’re obviously best buds now, and while Dean is glad they’re not trying to take each other out, with Earth in the crossfire, it’s still weird to see.

Chuck turns, and holds out a hand to Lucifer wordlessly. The effect is immediate; Lucifer stops glaring, and instead looks at God like he’s grown a new head. Which might not be unusual for God, actually, but the main thing here is that Lucifer looks startled. Which can’t be good.

“You cannot be serious.” Lucifer whispered, shocked and... hopeful? Is that hope? Dean wants to ask questions but he knows he needs to stay out of it. This is obviously something between Daddy and son, but on a cosmic scale, and something tells him he won’t get it even if he does ask.

Lucifer dithers for a minute, before taking a lurching step toward Chuck. He looks between Chuck’s open waiting hand, and then his father’s face. “You’ll let go? After?”

Yeah that’s not creepy at all. Dean wishes, very sincerely, that he wasn’t party to this conversation. They’re not just talking about holding hands, and something about the intensity of Lucifer’s look is making his skin crawl.

“Of course.” Chuck replies, and Lucifer nods. Whatever Chuck is offering, it’s enough to make Lucifer overcome his dislike, and his confusion of why the hell Amara and Chuck are suddenly buddies. His gaze is ravenously hungry and he grabs hold of Chuck’s hand like a greedy child. Dean gets another shock when Lucifer bursts into light - and not angel light either. It’s something more akin to when Bobby burst out of Sam’s arm, when Benny burst out of his own. Lucifer somehow looks like a human soul, blueish-white and fluid. He flies into Chuck’s waiting hand, bursting into the flesh of God’s palm and disappearing.

Dean can’t contain himself any longer. “What the fuck? What was that?!”

Chuck sighs, but it’s long suffering, and tempered by the small, satisfied smile on his face.


	4. Alpha and Omega Part III

“It’s difficult to explain to a human-” Chuck begins, but Dean has had it up to here with bullshit. It’s been a very, very long day.

 “Try!” He roars, resisting the urge to drag Chuck forward by the scruff of his jacket. He can almost hear Sammy pleading with him; _Don’t threaten God, Dean. Are you trying to die? Jesus._

Chuck only sighs.

“In the beginning,” God begins, and Dean swallows down the knee-jerk reaction to make fun. (But Dean still catches Amara’s eye, and hopes his message of ‘is He for real?’ is clearly relayed. Her wry smile seems to say she gets it). God blathers on, regardless.

 “After I created the universe, I created archangels.” God's blue eyes shine at Dean, something wistful in them. “Where do you think they came from? What materials do you think I used?”

 Dean startles at the unexpected question; he was settling in for a nice boring monologue. He waits for the obviously rhetorical question to be answered, but Chuck is looking at him, inquisitive eyes waiting studiously for an answer. Dean considers it again. Where did energy come from? Where did everything come from, in the end.

 “Um... pass?” Dean sighs, “Look man I- I guess. You?”

 “Correct!” Chuck chirps happily, and Dean feels uncomfortably like a dog that has learned a new trick. Urgh.

“So I created their grace from my own, and when my four beautiful pillars-” Says Chuck, Dean resolves firmly not to ask, “-were done helping me shape the universe-” and caging up Amara no doubt, but God isn’t tactless enough to mention it, with her sitting right there, and Dean is still Not Asking; “-they returned unto me, and were blessed.”

God then smiles benevolently at Dean, as though he expects the hunter to know exactly what the fuck he’s talking about.

They returned unto him? As in they went back to Heaven? Or they went back to God. Into God, like Lucifer just did?

“You just... vacuumed your kids back up? Yeah, that’s not an after school special waiting to happen...” Dean mutters sarcastically, unable to hold it in any longer. Amara looks confused, clearly not getting the reference, but Chuck simply laughs.

There is a quiet moment, the kind that reminds Dean that the creatures in front of him, no matter how calm in demeanour or human in appearance, are ancient and ruthless, and not to be trifled with. God tilts his head to one side then then other, with a familiar half-smile half hidden in his bushy beard.

“It’s infinitely more complex than that, but yeah, you got the gist. Returning unto me is also what all angels do, when they are severed.” God confirms.

“Severed?”

“Killed is too crude of a term, but it is the best one that translates.” Chuck’s smile is a lot softer now, dampened by grief. Dean swallows thickly and looks away. His own grief is too raw, still too new, and if God can be believed, not necessary anymore.

“So, dead angels, and live angels, can be sucked back into your grace? Or whatever?” He asks, anything to distract him of thoughts of Cas, dead in the sand.

Chuck nods, pleased that the general concept has gotten across.

“So why the hell didn’t you just suck Lucifer back up? Instead of letting him run riot, and then making a cage- when this whole time, you could have just pulled him in?!” Dean hisses, frustrated, and on the verge of letting it simmer into an anger he won't be able to control.

Amara waits silently, clearly unwilling to wade in this conversation unless she has to.

“It has to be done voluntarily, if the angel is alive. Lucifer would not have agreed then.” Chuck huffs, “Do you expect me to force my children to rebond with me? Would you expect a mother to take a child back into her body? Once they were created, named, they had individuality. Can you imagine walking around with a hundred voices in your head? A thousand? A million? They aren't dormant. Even as we speak Lucifer is rolling through me, basking in my grace. I couldn’t drag him back in without his permission, even if I wanted to.”

Dean grimaces, disgusted at the image, and unfavourably reminded of Cas, playing host to monster souls and Leviathans, corrupted by their poison. Alright, so maybe it’s not unreasonable to not want that.

“But dead angels. They’re in there with you?” Dean waves a hand at Chuck’s general everything.

“Not how you’re thinking. I’m not a vessel to be filled. I am infinite. And an angel’s grace and form, whilst it is shaped _from_ me, is no longer _of_ me once it has a personality of its own. Like a pot of clay, fired and fixed, can’t return to the wet clay it was separated from.” Chuck explains, and Dean gets it, though he couldn’t say why Chuck feels its necessary to tell him this now. He doesn’t interrupt though. “Severed angels are destroyed, and it is the individual atoms that return to me, unbound. I can reform them if I wish, but most of my children have earned their peace. I shelter them within me, and I feel them sleep, calm and unfettered.”

Dean winces. It sounds a little like Heaven, and he’s never been a big fan of the system they’ve got working up there, which always seemed lonely, and kind of a cop out. Still, it beats Downstairs. Still, none of this is his business really, save for morbid curiosity. Cas is the only angel that matters; if the rest of those winged dicks are getting a place to chill when they die, unable to leave without God’s say-so, that’s fine by him.

He channels his inner Sam, and asks the nerdy question, just for the hell of it: “If angels are made of atoms, how come their true form isn’t visible? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wanna get blinded, but...”

“Who said the atoms had to be in this plane? The spirit plane is where ghosts reside. The heavenly plane is for angels. Human vision cannot see in that spectrum, for the most part. There have been select individuals gifted with Sight, though I stopped that a long time ago. Benjamin’s vessel could See, as could Luke. He did not react well...”

“Bible Luke? You know what, never mind.” Dean waves it away. “You still haven’t explained to me what the hell is going on. Or why, if we’re in the past, Lucifer just showed up in the same vessel Crowley trapped him in. Shouldn’t he be wearing Vince Vincente? Or something?”

Chuck smiles, and Amara finally re-enters the conversation, tapping her smooth fingers against the polished wooden table-top. Everything is so clean and quiet. No birds sing, and there’s no hint of a breeze. The longer it continues, just the three of them, the creepier it gets. Dean can feel the tingle running down his spine that is usually an indicator he should run. He doubts he’d get far if he tried though, and he’s not actually afraid of their intentions. Chuck and Amara, for all their flaws, don’t seem like they’re hiding anything. It makes a nice change from the cryptic bullshit Dean often has to put up with, from everyone.

“We are not bound by time, the way many horological deities are. We can pluck beings from across several time streams, and bring them together, if we wished it. Such a thing would be... meddlesome, however. We wouldn’t do such a thing, if there were another way.”

“Another way to what?” Dean asks, calmer than he feels. He just wants solid answers.

“I was wrong to bring your mother back.” Amara repeats her line from earlier. Chuck nods, and adds:

“And I was wrong to allow it. We can’t allow an archangel nephilim to exist - an angel nephilim, perhaps, but not a half-archangel, half-human. The results would be too monstrous.”

“So why the time travel?” Dean presses, “Look, I’m grateful you’re stepping in. We didn’t know what the hell to do with Jack - um, the nephilim. Cas was convinced he was gonna be the messiah, but God knows- uh. You know why? Cause I don’t know why.”

Chuck ignores the slip up. He’s still smiling at Dean like a benevolent grandfather. It’s less irritating than it should be.

“Even we cannot hope to easily defeat the archangel nephilim after he has been born- not without serious consequences for the universe, and the living creatures that reside in it. I want no more unnecessary bloodshed.” Chuck replies firmly, and he’ll get no argument from Dean.

“So, you want him dead before any bystanders get ganked. Great. And you’ll bring Cas back?” Dean reminds him, because that’s the important thing here. He’s not letting them leave till he has proof Cas is live and kicking.

 “Castiel is still alive, here in this moment, Dean.” Amara reminds him gently.

Dean scrubs a calloused hand across his day-old stubble. It’s not enough, just to hear it. Cas was dead, right in front of him. He needs proof.


	5. Keep Calm and Carry On Part I

 

 

**NOW**

 

The sun was back to full strength. It was still setting, in bold golden streaks across the sky, but in a natural way. Sam stood beside Cas, and felt his heart break.

“He bloody did it,” Rowena breathed out, incredulous and impressed.

“And Dean?” Cas asked, but no one answered. There was no need to say a thing. They all knew Dean was gone. He was in the Void now; lost to them forever. Sam wanted to scream. No matter how hard they tried, all the people they managed to save, it always came back to this. They always lost each other.

Before anyone else could speak, Sam heard a shuffle behind him, and a familiar, awkward cough.

“I’m right here.”

It was Dean’s voice. Gruff, unmistakable. Wonderful. Sam spun around, incredulous, unwilling to dare to hope. But it was Dean, standing there, a soft little smirk on his face. Sam couldn’t breathe. Could it really be..?

“You’re alive?” Cas barked, charging forward impetuously, “But the bomb? Amara?”

“It’s all good.” Dean was grinning, shamelessly.

Cas stopped short of barrelling into Dean, abruptly. For a horrible second Sam expected Cas to announce it was an illusion, and not really Dean. He couldn’t see the expression on Cas’ face from this angle, but he could see the way the angel stiffened. Sam tensed, a sweeping rage threatening to overwhelm him. Who could even know where they were, to send a fake Dean to taunt them? Who even had that kind of power any more?

Cas raised a hand, as if to touch Dean and confirm he was real. He dropped it before making contact.

“You’re. You-” Cas hadn't finished speaking before Dean had pulled him into a bear hug. Cas buried himself into it, as though he never wanted to let go, and that meant it _was_ Dean. It was really Dean!

Sam felt himself moving, unconscious of everything else. Crowley's eyebrows had risen sky high, and Rowena was equally bemused, but Sam didn't pay them any mind. All that mattered was Dean, alive, here in this moment. Safe.

Dean whispered something into Cas’ ear, and the angel only tightened his hold in response.

His brother didn't even look tired, or mussed from a struggle. Sam drank in the sight of him, eyes roving over every inch of his brother that wasn't being warmly smothered by angel. Dean stood tall, solid, indestructible. Sam was curious about what had happened, how Dean had survived - but it could wait. All that mattered was Dean.

He threw himself into his own hug when Cas stepped back, unable to contain a happy, startled laugh of disbelief.

When they separated, Sam watched as Dean approached Crowley and Rowena, who had been watching the exchange with clear curiosity.

“Squirrel.” Crowley acknowledged Dean coolly. The demon was wary, but Dean didn't step too close.

Sam squared his shoulders, ready for a fight. With Amara gone, Dean might have decided their current truce was at an end. Sam wouldn't mind, if so. Crowley was useful, and familiar, but he was still a demon and had killed thousands, if not millions of people over the years. Including some of their friends.

But Dean didn't make a move to threaten the King of Hell. He simply gave him the once over, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw there.

“Thank you,” Dean said, calm and sincerely.

Sam couldn't help but feel his curiosity sky rocket. He couldn't recall Dean ever having thanked a monster like Crowley for his usually double-edged assistance before. Help from demons always came with a steep price though Crowley was the most trustworthy they’d ever encountered- and he had actively worked against them more than once. It hadn't even been long since Crowley had wanted Dean dead, and now Dean was thanking him for his eventual assistance? It didn't make sense, and Sam wondered what the hell could have gone down with Amara, in such a short space of time, and why Dean was so Zen about it.

He knew better than to ask in front of none-family members though; once it was just him, Dean and Cas, he knew they were going to have a talk.

\---

Dean didn't say much in the car; it wasn't until he pulled off the road and into a motel lot that they realised they weren't heading straight for the bunker. Dean was out of the car and paying for a room before Sam had time to ask what was going on.

Sam looked at Cas, and saw the angel was equally bemused. Good; at least he wasn't alone in his confusion. A flicker of conflict filtered across Cas’ face, but Sam didn't have time to ask what was wrong; Dean was thumping a hand on the roof and asking if they were planning to ‘sleep in Baby tonight or what?’. With an eye roll and a smile, Sam gathered up his things and the three of them traipsed into their room.

Once settled, Dean planted himself on one of the beds, patting the other one. Sam sat, ready for answers.

“Go on then, Cas,” Dean said, with a knowing grin on his face.

Sam stiffened, suddenly aware he was out of the loop. Cas was stood at the end of the two twin beds, and he was frowning, but more confused than angry.

“You are not our Dean.” Stated the angel, plainly and carefully devoid of emotion.

Sam felt shock ripple through him: his head snapped back to look at Dean, quickly assessing his supposed brother's features, looking for details he had overlooked in his joy to have Dean back.

The person seated across from him had no obvious differences; the expression on his face, his body frame, the tilt of his head; even the clothes were the same. Surely Cas would have recognised a shapeshifter or Leviathan immediately?

“What are you?” Sam croaked, grief threatening to consume him, battling back a wave of anger. Dean was gone and this impostor dared-

“He is your brother, Sam, but not the Dean of our time.” Cas rumbled, gaze drawn back to Dean, as always, by that magnetic pull they seemed to exert over one another. “You have travelled here from... The future?”

There was a tiny hesitation to Cas' tone that Sam would not have caught if he didn't know the angel so well. Cas' gaze was fixed firmly on Dean though, intense as always, as Dean gave a sharp nod to confirm what Cas had said.

Sam’s jaw dropped. Freaking time travel? Again?!

“But if you're... ‘future’ Dean... Then where’s _my_ Dean?” Sam growled, and the impostor winced.

“It’s a long story, “ Dean sighed, “better get comfy, Sammy.”


	6. Keep Calm and Carry On Part II

 

 

**SUPERNATURAL**

 

The motel room Dean had gotten for them was kitted out with two ugly maroon bedspreads, a ratty carpet and moth-eaten curtains. The A/C rattled faintly as it spun. Sam noticed all these inconsequential details as Dean told his depressing story.

Each word Dean spoke was like a physical blow. Sam had tried so many times throughout the years to remember, understand and empathise with their mother. She had become an almost mythical figure to their family, a symbol of all their family had lost, even before they realised the extent to which demons and angels had been plotting their downfall. To learn how cold, unfeeling, and selfish she was in actuality, hurt so much Sam couldn’t speak. He felt the cold, clammy dampness on his face before he even realised he was crying.

Mary had been Dad’s justification for every hunt; and Sam had finally understood his father when Jess was taken from him. Mary had existed in the one part of their life that had seemed safe, wonderful even. Domestic and dreamlike, though intellectually they had known for years Mary had actually been a hunter, one who didn’t take enough precautions with her young family, it hadn’t sunk in, how reckless she had been. Not until Sam had dated Amelia. He’d been so worried, so convinced Amelia was going to be found by something evil, every time he left her. Jess’ death was partly on him, for burying his head in the sand when he’d gone to Stanford. He shouldn’t have ignored his visions, should have used more than basic warding; and Mary, a seasoned hunter from a hunting family, had more resources at her fingertips than he had, back then. Mary could have done more to protect them when they were babies, but she didn’t. She’d chosen her own fantasy over their safety, and as adults, once they knew the truth, they’d mostly ignored it. Why dwell on such things, when they couldn’t be changed? But perhaps if they’d have talked it out, it wouldn’t be such a shock to learn about Mary’s personality, after she had been resurrected.

Sam listened to Dean’s story, without interruption, knowing how hard it was for Dean to open up this way. For Dean to break down the image of their mother as a saint, and try to explain her rationale as a fallible human being. A few sentences in, Cas joined Dean, sitting beside him on the bed, radiating protective concern. The angel nestled close to Dean, and it was a testament to how raw Dean must be feeling, that Dean allowed it without complaint.

As Dean spoke, Sam let himself think over the worst aspects of their past, something he usually avoided. Each member of their family had suffered great loss, and they had all turned to hunting to deal with it. Their parents had lost each other, and Sam had lost Jess. Dean had suffered the loss of Lisa, but he had been the strongest of them all; he’d walked away before their tainted bloodline got her killed. Whereas Dad, Sam himself and now Mom; they had all let their pain consume them. Probably because Dean had never been allowed to put himself first. Since Mary’s death when they were so young, Dean’d put their family first, shoved down his own pain and grief, ignored his own needs, and sacrificed every chance for happiness for other people, but mostly for Sam. And Sam knows he has been ungrateful. Sometimes Dean had seemed so overbearing, so dominating, so infuriating, that he had ignored his big brother’s advice. Sam had tried to break free from hunting, and every time it only lead to greater disaster. He’d let Kevin suffer, he’d trusted Ruby, let Lucifer out of his cage, he’d made so many mistakes...

Dean has made his own mistakes, as had Cas. But whether correct or not, the three of them, their intentions had been pure enough; they’d wanted to make the world better, safer. Apparently Mary had ‘talked the talk’; claimed she just wanted to help rid the world of monsters. Whereas Sam, Dean and Cas knew the price for such things and always chose each other in the end, Mary had been willing to let Cas die for the Colt, had manipulated Sam, who had in turn worked on Dean, to try and drag him into an organisation that wanted every non-human, dangerous or not, dead.

When Dean explained this, Sam swallowed down his reflex to deny that he would ever ignore his knowledge that not all creatures were dangerous. He knew Dean wasn’t lying, he could see it in the hollow expression on his bother's face. Sam would have to accept that his future self had joined these psychopaths, that wanted both monsters and hunters dead.

Sam remembered how he’d let his jealousy run riot against Benny. How he’d flat-out refused to acknowledge the possibility Benny could be safe around humans, all because Dean’s return from Purgatory had threatened his life with Amelia. He’d still been angry that Dean killed Amy, a kitsune who had actually been killing people. Sam wanted to let Amy go, because she’d saved him once, many years ago. But Benny hadn't killed any humans since his return from the grave. Sam had cost Dean a dear friend, Dean who had sacrificed so much for Sam over the years, just because he was jealous. It was one of the cruelest things he had ever done, and looking back on it now, on the way he’d lashed out at Dean over the whole mess with Gadreel, Sam was tortured by shame.

What kind of a person did it make him, that he’d tear away connections Dean tried to make with other people, then demand that Dean let him die? Die for a worthy cause, yes, to complete the trials. But at the same time Sam had guilt-tripped Dean, by mentioning Benny and Cas, as substitutes Dean had picked over him, knowing full well it was a lie. Dean had sacrificed all that those relationships could have been, for Sam. Sam had berated Dean for forcing him to live, knowing abandonment was Dean’s greatest fear. In that Church, Sam had changed his mind, promised he wanted to live. But after Dean had saved him, he was mad at Dean for taking every step necessary to ensure his survival; when he knew full well Dean would do anything, no matter the cost, to save him.

Sam's own manipulations had ultimately lead Dean to feel guilty for maintaining friendships outside of the two of them, and then Sam had turned around and rejected Dean too. It was atrocious, abominable behaviour, and Sam had no excuse to justify it. He knew full well that Dean had no sense of self-worth, hiding behind sarcasm and bluster, and yet he only continued to break his brother more. After that, Sam had resolved to do anything, everything to atone, starting with curing Dean of demonhood. And yet, as Dean described the future, it seemed that in a few short years, he had already begun to slide back down that slippery slope, ignoring Dean’s warnings and needs to suit himself.

They don’t talk about the past enough- there have been so many intervening disasters, so much pain and death, that dredging up the past is something they both actively avoid. So while they sometimes reminisce over joyful moments, Sam has no desire to push his brother to talk about the terrible things until he cracks and breaks. But being aware of their past mistakes might have prevented some of the disaster Dean is describing from ever happening.

But talking about their tragedies is not easy. Dean’s walls give him strength, and after all Sam has done, he has no right to try and tear them down. Sam knows he has done awful, unforgivable things to Dean in the name of his own happiness, for his own sense of comfort. Dean deserves his privacy, as much as Sam can give, when it comes to issues like love and loss. He wants the best for this brother, wants Dean to be experience real love and joy, friendship and family, but he isn’t stupid enough to believe Dean will let himself have it. Their lives are too dangerous, but Sam has tried to get Dean to think about it. Something with another hunter, or someone in the know. Maybe one day Dean will actually take the suggestion seriously.

And it would break Sam to dwell on the past too. Sometimes Sam can barely breathe when he focuses too long on it. All he can do is let it go, and try to be a better brother and friend in the future. If he dwells, he’ll fall apart, and Dean doesn’t deserve that. Dean and Cas are all he has, but the same is equally true for them. If Sam freaks out, lets himself succumb to guilt, he might crack completely, and then he will let them down. And he never wants to do that again.

That’s why it hurt, like a knife between the ribs, to hear Dean talk of a future where their mother had been resurrected, and had joined a fascist organisation hell bent on genocide - because _Sam had joined her_. He’d abandoned Dean, again. Dean downplayed it in his explanation, of course, but Sam can hear it in the way his brother pauses, searching for the right words. Sam hears the tale of his own betrayal in all the things Dean doesn’t say.

Even now, after Dean has travelled back to warn them, to prevent yet another clusterfuck, he was still protecting Sam. Still trying to defend him. Sam swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. When will he ever be worthy of Dean’s unfailing love? Why can he never step up and give Dean what he needs? Why is it always him letting everyone down?

Dean eventually finished his tale, describing how he had travelled back with Amara’s help, leaving his own Sam in a future where Lucifer's son was poised take over. Mary had been brainwashed and had started picking off hunters, but Dean had broken her free; only for them to watch her get herself trapped in another universe.

“Garth, Jody, Claire; they were all alive, still on the British Men of Letters’ hitlist.” Dean finished up, his voice hoarse from explaining.

It was a lot to take in, and Sam wanted time to absorb it. However, it hadn’t happened yet, and they could still prevent it, so they needed to discuss _how_.

Cas had paled when Dean had explained that his future self had run away from them, to protect the nephilim. Dean had insisted the unborn child had been controlling Cas somehow, giving him the power to destroy a ‘Prince of Hell’. Which, it turned out, was the real name for a Yellow-Eyed Demon, and there were a fair few of them around. It was chilling to hear, but they had the advantage of forewarning now, and formidable skills. That had to count for something.

Sam cleared his throat, needing to express his solidarity. “We have to prevent this.” he began, “How are we going to get to the British Men of Letters, before they set up shop?”

Dean winced. “It’s too late. They're already here. Why do you think we’re crashing in this craphole, instead of going back home?”

“Oh shit,” Sam breathed, surprised by how violated he felt, at the thought of strangers roaming around in the bunker, touching their things. Messing up his nice filing system: dirtying up Dean’s orderly kitchen. They'd never had a base of their own- Bobby’s house had been a safe haven but it had never been _theirs_. And now these foreign douchebags had invaded their space and trespassed against their family. The future Dean described couldn’t be allowed to happen over again.

“They are in the bunker, waiting to ambush you?” Cas asked for confirmation, and Sam felt his fury rise when Dean nodded in reply.

However, no matter how harrowing the events Dean described were, something still didn’t add up to Sam. They’d been through so much together, the three of them, apocalypses and deaths, betrayals and tortures of all kinds. Yet they’d never pulled a move like this one before. They’d tried to take advantage of time travel before, yes, but it had never made a difference. And now, Dean had scrubbed out a year, just to take down a human organisation?

Something didn’t quite add up. It sounded as though Dean believed the three of them, in that future, weren’t capable of taking down the nephilim, even though they’d already gotten rid of the British Men of Letters by the time the nephilim was born. Over the years, they had managed to defeat a lot of powerful creatures, including the Devil himself. So why did Dean come back, just to prevent this? What had been so terrible about this particular apocalypse that Dean couldn’t see a way forward, without coming back here to prevent it all from happening?

When Sam commented so, Dean scoffed, pointing out that it had been Amara who chose to send him back, without his say so. But Dean's eyes betrayed him, flickering to Cas, a flash of pain on his face that was so visceral, Sam couldn't help but gasp. In that moment, like a punch to the gut, Sam knew what Dean hadn’t been able to bring himself to say.

He knew that, in the version of reality Dean had travelled back from, Cas had died.


	7. Keep Calm and Carry On Part III

Before Sam could utter a word, Dean said; “We need to get some shut eye, so we can look with fresh eyes in the morning. Some of us have been awake for two goddamn days.”  
  
The words were biting and sharp. Though part of him wanted to argue, Sam recognised that Dean wouldn’t be able to cope if he pushed. It was more likely that Dean’d lash out and leave them here, on a quest to drink away the pain, or he’d simply go and get another motel room. Either way, Sam wouldn’t get answers, and Dean would suffer- especially if these British dicks already had eyes on them. Dean had explained how they’d managed to keep Sam captive, and neither of them wanted a repeat of that. If they separated now, even for few hours, Sam would worry Dean had been snatched, and vice versa. Dean was right. What they needed, was to calm down and sleep, and assess the situation in the morning.  
  
However, with all the awful information tumbling round his head, Sam doubted he would be able to find solace in dreamless sleep. The more likely option was tossing and turning, until Cas tried to put him out of his misery. But Cas needed to save his strength for more important things, as far as Sam was concerned. He had no intention of accepting the angel’s help, just so he could rest easily. Nightmares were the least Sam deserved at the moment. Though he hadn’t yet done anything wrong, and resolved not to this time round, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let Dean down again.  
  
The brothers quickly washed up, and flung themselves into their respective beds. Cas looked as though he fully intended on sitting at the little table their room had come with, all night long.  This wasn't really unusual behaviour for their angel, but Dean hesitated before turning off the bedside lamp. His eyes briefly flickered to Sam, who did his best to look tired and not curious. Sam knew Dean would only clam up, if he appeared to be paying too much attention. Even now, though Sam was in his 30s, Dean still felt obligated to present a stoic front for him, a lot of the time.  
  
“Cas, you gonna stay, tonight?” Dean licked his lips, tense as hell but doing his best to hide it. “The British douchebags have a lot of weapons at their disposal... and I know you can take care of yourself, but, man. I want us to stay off their radar as long as possible.”   
  
Cas only blinked, before nodding his head. “Of course, Dean. I will watch over you as you sleep.” He rumbled, the shadow of a smile dancing around his lips.  
  
“I-” Dean opened his mouth to object the terminology Cas had chosen, but clamped it shut again almost immediately. Clearly, he figured the easiest way to get what he wanted- Cas safe in the room overnight- was to go along with it. “Right. Great, Cas. Thanks.”  
  
Studiously ignoring Sam, Dean flicked off the light, and the room was plunged into semi-darkness. The red numbers of the alarm clock, and the buzz of the street-light through the skimpy curtains, provided an eerie amber glow, casting dim shadows and silhouettes about the shabby room. Exhausted, Sam settled back into the mattress. He was expecting his whirling thoughts and self-recrimination to keep him awake for hours. But as his head hit the pillow, sleep dragged him under with hooked claws, plunging him into the mercy of sweet oblivion.  
  
\---  
  
Sam woke with a gasp, a scream barely choked back as he panted, sucking in great gulps of air. A quick glance to his right showed him Dean hadn’t been disturbed by his nightmare; his brother was still sound asleep, forehead smooth and untroubled. Sam suspected Cas’ healing touch had something to do with that, and with thoughts of the angel came a rush of fear. Cas had died in the future that Dean had returned from. He looked around the room, expecting to see the Cas still seated at the table, or maybe quietly watching television. But Cas was not there.  
  
Panic seized Sam’s limbs. Had the British Men of Letters captured Cas instead? Cas could still be summoned, after all. Maybe they’d done so, thinking the Winchesters weren’t going to return to the bunker anytime soon. Sam was a hair’s breadth away from yelling at Dean to wake up, when the outside door began to rattle with the familiar sound of lock tumblers turning. Cas carefully stepped into the room. He was balancing a McDonald’s cup-carrier with two takeout cups, and a crumpled takeout bag. Seeing that Sam was awake, the angel smiled and quietly wished him a good morning. Sam’s heart was pounding against his ribcage, and his palms were sweaty, clutching onto his rumpled bedsheets. Cas’ face fell, a look of hurt mixed with apprehension.  
  
“Sorry, Cas. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Sam huffed quietly, belatedly realising that Dean had woken up, and was now blinking up at him blearily from the other queen bed.  
  
Carefully setting his bundle on the table, Cas approached the brothers.  
  
“Are you alright, Sam? I assumed you would both need sustenance. You both usually arise and eat at this time, so I decided to get it for you.” Cas grinned, radiating pride. But then his expression darkened again; “I apologise for startling you.”  
  
Dean was boring a hole into the side of Sam’s head with the intensity of his stare. Sam withered in embarrassment under the scrutiny.  
  
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Cas.” Sam cleared this throat, “I was just worried, when I woke up and you weren’t here, that something might have happened to you.”  
  
Clearly Cas was not expecting that explanation.  
  
“You were worried for me? Why? I thought this organisation wanted to kidnap _you_ for information. I do not have the knowledge of hunting that Dean claimed they are interested in.” Cas sounded genuinely bewildered, though it was tempered by his regular sombre tone.  
  
Sam risked a glance at Dean. His big brother was livid, having made it clear by his silence that he doesn’t want to talk about whatever happened to future-Cas. But he visibly deflated when their eyes met. It’s wasn't like Sam had _intended_ for this to happen, and Dean recognised that, because he sat up, climbing out of bed and taking control of the situation.  
  
“These douchebags are bad news, and after all of us. So we gotta be extra cautious.” Dean announced, before clapping Cas on the shoulder in a friendly pat. “Thanks for breakfast though, buddy. Smells awesome!”  
  
Just like that, the tension evaporated. Cas’ lips turned up, in what Sam privately thought of as his ‘Dean-smile’; that pleased little grin Cas only ever seemed to use in response to Dean’s antics. Sam clambered out of his own bed and claimed the bathroom, ready to settle into the tried and tested routine of research. And Dean rifled through the McDonald’s bag, making happy noises as he claimed his McMuffin and coffee.  
  
\---  
  
Once they were all showered and dressed, it was time to map out their plan of action. Sam was prepared to get researching immediately. But when he reached for his laptop, Dean quietly placed a hand on top of the machine, preventing him from opening it.  
  
“There’s something else you need to know.” said Dean slowly. Sam frowned, sitting up a little higher in his crappy plastic chair.  
  
“Okay...?”

Sam wanted to crack a joke about ominous silences, but got the feeling Dean was not in the mood. The three of them were seated around the formica table, impatient to begin. But neither Sam nor Cas attempted to hurry Dean, allowing the man space to gather his thoughts.  
  
Eventually Dean admitted: “I don’t know how to say this without just coming right out and saying it. Amara didn’t just bring me back and leave me to it. She offered me choices.”  
  
“What kind of choices?” asked Cas, patiently. His expressive eyes never left Dean's face.  
  
“Well, she offered to ‘gift me’ powers of persuasion.” Dean’s lips twisted into an ugly grimace, revealing exactly what he thought of that idea. “Like, literal magical powers. I told her thanks, but no thanks. And then she offered me some things _actually_ worth thinking about.”  
  
“Things like what?” Sam whispered.  
  
“Things like sending you - the future version of you, back here with me.” Dean replied.  
  
To Sam, it felt like every moment he had believed he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t pure enough, was too tainted by demon blood and Lucifer’s vessel besides, all rolled into one. _Of course_ Dean wanted the other Sam. Even after all the decisions Dean had made on his behalf, ones he had promised to never make again, he had done so anyway.  
  
“And what did you say?” Sam tried to keep the rage out of his voice. It was his life! Yes or no, it should have been _his_ decision! But when was he ever allowed a chance to choose anything this important for himself? Before he could argue so, Dean replied.  
  
“I told her it wasn’t my choice to make. It’s your body, Sammy. Your life. If you want-” Dean began, and Sam was up and out of his seat in seconds, unable to contain the wide grin splitting his face. He dragged Dean out of his own chair, crushing his older brother into a warm hug.  
  
“Thank you,” Sam mumbled, repeating the words over and over like a mantra, as he clung on.  
  
Dean was not expecting to be pulled around, so stumbled a little. But he quickly righted himself, chuckling under his breath as he returned the embrace. Cas watched the exchange in silence, and his eyes were shining with affection for the two brothers, his friends, who had finally learned how to respect one another as equals.


	8. Keep Calm and Carry On Part IV

Fraternal warmth radiated in Sam’s chest, giving him a sense of relief, the kind of peace he hadn't experienced for a very long time. For years, every effort they’d made to do good had only lead to worse catastrophes. At times, it had seemed like the battle wasn’t worth fighting anymore. But here in this moment, plotting with his brother and their best friend, Sam felt confident. They could beat whatever doom came knocking. Because they were a family, forged in the crucible of war, sorrow and agony, and they were determined to overcome this together.

Sam had decided to shelve the decision about his future-self and current-self merging, for the time being. He needed to consider the pros and cons, but it would take time they didn't have right now. He couldn't afford to dismiss the possibility outright, yet the prospect was a daunting one, and they had more pressing needs. They had to prioritise, and it didn't seem like there was much intel that future-Sam knew about their newest enemy, which Dean didn't already know. But their window of opportunity to take advantage of Dean's knowledge was closing fast. He'd altered reality just by being here. Everything they did now would go 'off-book', meaning they wouldn't be able to predict everything the British Men of Letters would do.

Hunting human adversaries isn’t something they have a ton of experience with, but they know enough to track a person if they have a name. Sam searched for everything he could on Antonia Bevell, the woman who kidnapped and tortured the other version of himself. Meanwhile, Dean scribbled furiously, writing down all the cases, people and important events he could remember from the months he had lost. Soon he had an elaborate timeline, surrounded by a whole heap of scrap paper and post-it notes.

Cas helped by cataloguing all the supplies they had in the trunk of the Impala. He filled his own pages with long lists of the many weapons, talismans, and spell ingredients they had with them. Thankfully, they never assumed they would have the bunker forever. Sam knew Dean considered it their home, and he loves the bunker too; but they always keep the supplies they need most frequently, with them at all times. For practical reasons naturally; if they are on a hunt and need something, it’s best they have it close by. But also for tactical purposes: in case the bunker is ever destroyed. It’s not enough to _assume_ they have the things they will need. They now require a comprehensive list of all their tools, so they can move forward, armed and prepared.

They also held off on contacting anyone for the time being. Dean assured them that the Brits wanted to win American hunters over first, so Jody, Donna, Garth and their other friends were safe for now. Hunters protect people, but many of them are addicted to the job. There were very few that were balanced enough to learn about a shady organisation wanting to take them out, and would not attempt a preemptive strike. The more people that know, the more likely it is that someone will jump the gun, try to be proactive and get themselves killed in the process. Now is not the time to begin a series of vendettas. Dean has watched enough Game of Thrones to argue for smart, strategic planning, and Sam couldn't agree more. Cas frowned, listening to their discussion, and then drily commented that the CGI dragons were 'extremely unrealistic'. For a little while, they forgot about the danger pressing in on them and laughed.

At noon, they took a break to stretch their legs and walk to a nearby diner for food. They needed to keep out of sight though, so they reluctantly returned to the cramped room. As they ate, safe for the moment in the dingy little space, Dean went into a more detailed explanation of the offers Amara had put on the table. It was head-spinning stuff. The power required to do the things he was describing made Sam dizzy, just thinking about it.

“It’s kinda crazy though, right? How Amara went from wanting to tear down every piece of creation, to go Team Human?” Sam couldn’t quite keep the suspicion out of his voice. He’d never seen Amara express any emotion that wasn’t also tied to her wrath.

“I don’t think it’s a love of humanity that drives her actions.” Cas mused, “A need to atone for her previous behaviour would be more likely. And since Dean was the source of her infatuation, perhaps she feels obliged to make amends with him, personally.”

Cas had retained an uncanny ability to talk about such painful things, in a detached manner. The brothers were not so lucky. Nethertheless, Sam ignored uncomfortable grimace on Dean’s face, and soldiered on: “Time travel has the potential to unravel reality though, right? The paradoxes alone...”

Dean cut him off before he could get himself lost in theoretical mathematics. “She’s God’s sister, Sammy. She has the juice.” Dean said, firmly.

Unwilling to bicker, Sam raised a hand in a placating gesture, offering a half-shrug to say he wasn't going to fight. Dean huffed, but let it go. Cas was watching them with narrowed eyes, but when no squabble broke out, his posture returned to a more relaxed one.

“You are certain about this course of action, then?” Cas asked, his eyes roving over Dean's face. Searching for microscopic clues that would reveal Dean's inner feelings, no doubt.

Dean only chuckled; a bleak, painful sound. “Fuck no, Cas. But we can't waste this opportunity, can we? Amara flat out refuses to bring our Mom back, or our Dad either. She said, and I quote: ‘I will not be a party to the cruelty of your parents.’ It’s a no-go.”

“But... She will resurrect someone?”

Dean had confirmed it several times, but Sam needed to hear it, at least once more.

“One blood relative, free of charge.” Dean snorted, tired and conflicted. “Now all we have to do... is choose.”


	9. Keep Calm and Carry On Part V

“How the hell are we supposed to decide?” Sam grumbled, “Do we even have any right to just pluck someone out of their Heaven, and expect them to be okay with it?”

“Probably not. Being dragged back to life isn’t a cake-walk, even if you’ve only been dead a few months. Mom eventually adapted to the technology, but she found it tough at first, to wrap her head around phones, cars, music...” Dean sighed, scrubbing at his forehead with one calloused hand. “She was freaked out by everything, but she did a good job of pretending she was cool with it. And getting used to us... never really happened.”

“Adam seems like the only real choice. He’s our brother, and we barely had time to know him... though whether he wants to know us...” Sam trailed off with an unattractive snort.

“Your younger brother was a very forthright, frank and resourceful young man, and he was not impressed by either of you,” Cas commented bluntly; “Of course, those are defining Winchester characteristics, so I imagine you would get along like a ‘house-fire’, after a period of adjustment.”

“Uh, thanks, Cas?” Sam and Dean exchanged a look, both of them well used to Cas’ dry assessments. Sam couldn’t help but be charmed by Cas’ particular brand of blunt honesty, and incorrect similes. Dean rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.

“Still, I’m not convinced we should do this.”Sam admitted.

“We’re the poster boys for reincarnation, Sammy, it’s not like we haven’t been around this block before.” Dean pointed out.

“Yeah, and every time, we had to wrestle with whether it was right to come back or not. Or if what is dead, should _stay_ dead. If we bring Adam back, he’ll only have us to help him deal, and we’re not exactly Dr Phil.” Sam argued, and Dean groaned heavily, already agitated. He’d probably been ruminating on these issues since Amara offered the first olive branch, and likely detested the idea of going over them out loud.

“I know, Sammy.” Dean snapped, and abruptly shot to his feet.

Sam recognised his brother’s need to move, to relieve tension. They had to remain in this room for the time being, to stay incognito. Being cooped up together was something they had ample experience with, however. Many years navigating each other's tempers allowed Sam to remain unfazed, granting Dean silence to think. Since he couldn’t drive anywhere, Dean settled for pacing back and forth before he spoke again.

“Adam’s Mom’s family know he’s dead. He could hardly rock up after all these years, looking the same age, with no explanation.” Dean explored the scenario with a carefully measured tone. “We can get him fake papers, sure, but with the Brits on our asses, there is no way we could let him just run off and go back to college or whatever. Not till we could guarantee his safety. And even if we get rid of these dick-bags, some fucking monster out for revenge is always gonna use him to get to us.”

“We could teach him to hunt. Or maybe just the basics, so he could defend himself. He could live in the bunker with us, or somewhere close so we could keep an eye on him.” Sam added.

Dean laughed, shaking his head incredulously. “And you really think he wouldn’t do a bunk? The kid has no reason to trust us. Dad kept him in the dark, and it got him and his Mom shredded. And then along come the angels, who take his skin for a spin on the Goliath, and then Cas literally burnt him alive. If I were him, I’d take one look at us and run.”

It hurt to know just how accurate Dean’s assessment was. They had no right to bring Adam any more pain. Resurrecting him would only be an attempt to nullify their own grief, for the loss of the relationship they might have had with their other brother, if only he had lived.

“Spin on the Goliath?” Cas repeated, a deep frown shadowing his features. “How-”

“It’s a roller coaster, Cas,” Dean cut him off, before the angel could finish. The explanation didn’t seem to satisfy Cas, who let out an unconvinced hum, but dropped it. He knew full well that asking Dean to untangle his references often lead to even more confusion.

Sam simply ignored the interruption, and ploughed on with the conversation. He was determined to come to a decision on something today. Or at least rule out a few candidates. He re-gained Dean’s attention, by catching his brother's eye.

“You said yourself we can’t just throw this opportunity away.” Sam reminded him, “So who do you have in mind? One of the Campbells? Gwen seemed alright...”

“She was.” Dean agreed, “But I barely knew her. You spent a lot more time with her than I did, but you were light in the soul department at the time. Same problem though. What good would it do? Right now she’s probably sipping a cold one and bitchin’ with the rest of our cousins. Would she even want to come back, given the chance?”

“Bobby would,” Sam grumbled, resentful of the restriction Amara had placed. Bobby was family, blood or no.

Dean said nothing, and the suspiciously glossy sheen of his eyes told Sam not to push. They both missed Bobby, but their grief had settled as the years wore on. Now it was more like the lingering ache of a chronic pain, than the agony of a sucking chest wound.

“The way I see it, we only have one real option.” Dean announced, resting his hands on the back of his recently vacated chair. He paused, but soon declared in a firm tone; “Henry.”

Sam blinked. “Really? You weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to get in his good books.”

“He came through for us in the end.” Dean reminded him, as though Sam could ever have forgotten holding their grandfather between them as he died.

“And as shitty as it sounds, he doesn’t have a home to go back to, even if he could get to his own time. Grandma Millie remarried when Dad was a teenager,” Dean continued, “Henry’s probably living it up in Heaven too, though I imagine his Rolodex of trophy moments isn’t half as... _intricate_ as mine.”

Dean attempted a leer to lighten the mood, and Sam filed that particular expression under the box in his mind titled ‘Clowns’, where he shoved traumatic thoughts, such as Dean having sex. There are some things little brothers just don’t need to see, hear, or think about.

“Henry, your paternal grandfather who travelled forwards in time, and brought Abaddon on his heels?” Cas asked, for clarification, a mild tone of censure in his voice. Whether his disapproval was aimed at Henry, or at them for suggesting him, Sam couldn’t tell.

“Henry, who was an _American_ Man of Letters. I bet he knows more secrets than he let on. He never even got to see the bunker he gave up his life to keep from Abaddon.” Dean pressed on, “He was a little uptight, but of all the people we could bring back, at least we can say for sure he would stand with us.”

“Unless he tries to go back to Dad again- um, the kid version of Dad, I mean.” Sam stuttered. All this talk of time travel and resurrection sounded like a bad sci fi novel, and Sam had never been overly fond of the genre in the first place. He would be glad when the discussion was over, if only to save himself from the headache of trying to keep it clear in his mind.

“I reckon we could convince him not to.” Dean mused, seeming confident all of a sudden; “Dad had a tough life, but without him bringing us up as hunters, who’s to say we could end the apocalypse again? I mean, God and Amara will be there to explain what’s happening. She made it clear that this time, she’d answer questions, before she swans off on another sabbatical.”

The more Dean spoke, the more convinced he seemed. Sam had to admit the idea had merit, but he still wasn’t sure Henry would be thrilled to see them again.

“But if he’s happy in Heaven...”

“He can say no. Amara won’t keep him against his will, but she did say we could only attempt this once. Can’t fuck up the fabric of the universe too many times- that shit will bite you where the sun don’t shine if you ain’t careful.”

Cas cut into their volley of a conversation, with a pensive; “Henry would seem like a good choice. As a mature adult, he may be more rational and reliable than your brother. He is of Cain’s bloodline, which is an advantage, and his knowledge of the occult may prove useful against your new adversary.”

Sam agreed with that succinct summary, but there was something he didn’t quite understand. “Does it matter, the Cain connection? I mean, Dean and I are both his descendants too, right?” He asked.

Dean nodded, fixing Cas with a puzzled look. Cas squinted at Sam, then at Dean, before seeming to realise the brothers truly did not get what he had meant.

“You are the descendants of both Cain and Abel. Abel’s blood runs through your maternal line- the line of Lucifer’s vessels.”

Like the proverbial lightbulb, knowledge lit up Sam’s brain. “So, any Campbell we brought back could potentially still be a vessel for Lucifer. But if we bring back a _Winchester_...”

“Henry couldn’t be used by Lucifer, if that scumbag ever separates from God.” Dean finished, rising to his full height, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Well folks, I think we have a winner.” He crowed, and Sam allowed himself a small grin in return, despite his misgivings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to those of you who guessed the correct relative!!


	10. Mamma Mia Part I

Toni had long advocated for a more hands-on approach, regarding the troublesome Winchester family. Dr Hess supported her ideas, but the Elder council disagreed. And the power resided with the old men still, despite various unrest, and polarising opinions within their organisation. She knew the Elders doubted many of the swirling rumours surrounding Dean and Samuel Winchester, and she could hardly blame them. It all seemed so very far-fetched, compared to the rigid control they maintained within their on borders. Toni was not blinded by her own sense of importance, like many of her so-called leaders. Most Elders ignored any and all references to their own shortcomings. They were militant about maintaining Britain’s reputation as a Kingdom entirely devoid of supernatural filth.

But they knew full well that the Scottish highlands were rife with fae, and herds of centaurs that could not be ousted, no matter how many methods were employed to attempt so. And lord protect anyone who mentioned the kelpie infestation in Dr Hess’ earshot. Devon and Cornwall were practically overrun with pixies, while elves were a household staple throughout Wales. Selkies surrounded the shores of Ireland, and banshees, xanna and vengeful spirits could be found anywhere. England, and indeed all of Britain, was saturated with magic, if you knew how to look for it. Despite all their best attempts at border control. Thankfully, the more bloodthirsty creatures _were_ prohibited a foothold, with werewolves, shapeshifters, vampires and other similar vermin eradicated centuries ago.

Yet even the most troublesome issues in Britain did not compete with the dysfunction of the Americans. These days, it seemed the Winchesters caused almost yearly apocalypses, preceded by other supernatural disasters, relationships both platonic and sexual with monsters of all kinds, a psychotic co-dependency with each other being not the least of their personality disorders- and the incredible list went on. Slaughtering their way across the history books, the Winchesters were living legends, disgusting and intriguing in equal measure. Toni longed to crack them open and pick apart their brains with every spell and enhanced interrogation technique she knew. The evidence the Men of Letters had collated on the Winchesters was sporadic at best. Only second-hand rumour could fill in the blanks, growing more grandiose with every re-telling, before it could reach one of their sources. They had tried to verify what they could, but finding evidence from trustworthy hunters was like attempting to catch smoke; pointless folly.

Time and again, the world had come to the brink of collapse, and the Winchester family was always, unfailingly, at the heart of the catastrophe. Most recently, the sun had begun to die, several million years too early. And Toni had finally been granted the chance to get definitive answers. The Winchesters had to be brought to heel. For the sake of the world, and her own son specifically. Her darling boy deserved a chance to grow up, and flourish, as did the millions of other children threatened by the Winchester's penchant for unweaving the fundamental laws of the universe. The Men of Letters could no longer justify ignoring the destruction the Americans were wreaking on the world, and it would be her sincere pleasure to put an end to it.

Davies and the others were foolish enough to think they stood a chance at a conversion. That enough ‘shock and awe’, to use the local vernacular, would convince American hunters to follow their methods. And that one day soon, the little American worker bees would neutralise the supernatural vermin threatening the whole hive. But Toni was not so naive. She highly doubted the experiment would work, and so had formulated her own plans with Dr Hess as her patron. The Americans were superfluous to requirements; once the Winchesters had been bled dry of their intelligence, they could be bled dry in the more literal sense, and the universe entire would benefit.

Americans had been given decades to set their house in order, since the destruction of their own Men of Letters Chapter. By far enough time to get their country under control. America was vast, admittedly, but warding on such a scale was not impossible. The resources were there, for those who bothered to look. Yet no hunter had bothered to reach past the borders of their own tiny mind, to focus on the bigger picture. Instead, the Americans seemed to flutter from one monstrous crime scene to another, mopping up the mess, rather than attempting to prevent bloodshed in the first place. No more excuses. They had failed, and now it was time the real experts stepped in to clean up their mess.

Davies and his team would figure that out, eventually. In the meantime, Toni was going to have her fun while she broke Sam Winchester. And in the end, it would be her name forever immortalised, as the soldier who brought down the Winchesters.

\---

Toni had laid her trap efficiently and without undue stress. All evidence seemed to suggest the Winchesters had made the Kansas bunker their permanent residence, though it was sparsely furnished and she could see little evidence of attempts to modernise the place. Probably because the cretins were too dumb to understand how to untangle the complex magical wiring system. Syncing new technology into existing warding wasn’t simply a case of plugging it in a nearby socket, after all. But Samuel Winchester had little excuse, as a man who had gained a full scholarship to a prestigious university. Surely he could read a manual? The bunker had extensive information referencing the warding and other protections in place. So perhaps they were just incredibly lazy. Either way, Toni felt her contempt rise to dangerous levels, the longer she was forced to remain in the windowless relic. Lying in wait for the younger Winchester to come home.

She had painted a sigil to banish their pet angel, and waited patiently with her favourite pistol for company. But after an entire night of tense clock-watching, the man did not materialise. Another day passed, with the same result. Her accomplice had been monitoring the roads, but there was no indication that either Winchester was coming home soon. Davies had arrived however, and he would catch wind of her scheme if she remained here. Better to leave now with plausible deniability, than remain until Davies caught her, and reprimanded her accordingly for what he would see as her attempted disobedience. So Toni swallowed down her bitter disappointment. This would have been the perfect place to catch Samuel off his guard, hopefully blinded by grief, if rumours of Dean’s newest demise were true.

But she was nothing if not adaptable. Toni carefully scrubbed down all evidence of her uninvited stay, and cursed herself for not bringing recording equipment, to plant in strategic places. She had assumed she would not need to spy on them, because the angel would be banished, and Samuel would be in her clutches. But there was no time to fetch and hide it now. Toni needed to make herself scarce, if she wanted to remain unfettered, to fight her upcoming battles on another day. The reinforced door of the bunker made a depressingly loud clang of finality, when she slammed it shut behind herself; closing forcefully behind her unsuccessful première.

 


	11. Mamma Mia Part II

“Attention s'il vous plaît, mon petit chou.” Mother gently chastised him. She was a dignified woman, who sat with a rigid posture. But her smiles were warm, and her arms always open in welcome. She doted on her family, though her affection was considered somewhat reserved, in comparison to her American counterparts. However, Mother was undeniably the glue that held together their household.

Father was a scholar, often lost in his ruminations, but known to be fair and just in all his judgements. Mother’s sweet smile drew him from dusty parchment into the light, and her soft hands eased the tension in his shoulders. Never was a husband so adored, or a son so cherished. And Henry had modelled his domestic ideal on their peaceful example.

In life, Henry learned the value of compassion from his mother, though his temper ran far hotter than hers ever did. He was a dutiful son. He obediently followed the path laid out for him, as a legacy to a prestigious society, one which had afforded their family such glory and advancement. But he hadn’t been a slave to their dogma. When he deemed it necessary to abandon their teachings for his own conscience, he did so. He could not sit idly by when there were injustices to be rectified, and he swore to make decisions based on fact, not tradition. He had no love for hunters, but knew they needed more information than the Elders would deem prudent.

He believed in knowledge used to prevent slaughter, rather than jealously guarded to keep the secrets of magic from other grasping hands. And he was not alone. But Cuthbert stepped too far out of line, and Henry was given a sharp taste of what his revolutionary beliefs could lead to. He could do no one any good if he too was banished, so he swallowed his tongue and bided his time. He was not a politician by any means, but he was efficient and hard-working. He had planned to make himself invaluable, before carefully altering the Men of Letters stance of isolationism. These were the thoughts he consoled himself with, as he dedicated his life to his work, pushing aside all niggling doubt that whispered he was losing precious time with his family. Ignoring that Mother would have been ashamed to see him grow into a neglectful man. All hesitation was swept aside by the lure of future prestige and philanthropy.

In the end it had all been for naught. Henry’s demise had not even reflected his life’s ambitions. He had died a hunter’s death, taking a risky gamble for uncertain gains. Perishing between the clutches of his brave, irreverent grandsons, having forever lost the chance to see his own boy grow. Now, Henry felt only regret. He had focused too hard on his duty to the Men of Letters, and all his good intentions had been swept clean away with his disappearance. His beloved wife had lost all faith in him, and had lived out her days convinced of his disregard for her. His son had grown up with no instruction on the true nature of the world, believing Henry an honourless cad. There was no one to mourn for him, for his friends were long dead. It was an ignoble death, and as he wallowed in his fondest moments, there were times he felt he deserved it. His pride and misplaced sense of duty had sent him far away from his parents’ example of marital devotion. But there was little action to be taken in this barren afterlife.

So Henry sat obediently beside his mother, as she repeated the melody again, long pale fingers confident on the keys. Her scarlet smile brought a bittersweet counterpart to his own lips. Henry had never sat beside her and played, as a living adult. She had died when he was a grown man, but a young one still, long before Millie had blessed him with a son of his own. But here in the eternal, she waited for him to approximate the melancholy notes with ceaseless patience.

When he first realised he was not dreaming, Henry had attempted to alter the course of his repeating memories. But no matter what action he tried, the shades of his loved ones remained loyal to their scripts. Mother could not see the grown man he was; only the boy he had been. Millie was deaf to his apologies, and John did not notice Henry’s affectionate embraces. Before long, sorrow gripped him too tight, and he stove off despair by exploring his surroundings.

Eventually, he found solace in his father’s study, which contained a formidable library. Books, no matter how valued, could not replace a genuine conversation, however. After what may well have been years of escapism in the written word, Henry became incensed. Too long he had been devoted to duty above all else. And he was no longer inclined to accept his circumstances without protest. His short-lived tenure as a time traveller had been a foray into recklessness. But it had lit a fire in his blood, that, once kindled, was not easily extinguished.

Trying to alter the robotic apparitions that haunted his memories led to no discernable results. But Henry persevered, using moments of Cuthbert’s tutelage to plunder his former master’s supplies. Josie’s antique collection of occult-related trinkets also proved useful, and he requisitioned anything of remote interest, while she laughed at amusing anecdotes he had told her true self a lifetime ago.

Experimenting with magic in this place was no easy feat. Henry was not a great sorcerer in life, and had gained no mystical abilities after the loss of it. But he retained a knowledge of the work of his venerable colleagues and forebears. He was a talented scholar, and undaunted by the apparent inanity of his task. Henry was a pragmatic man. The rules of existence had changed, thus he must alter his perceptions accordingly. Henry was stubborn about many things, but he was no fool. If one method did not work, he fought to find more innovative solutions. If all evidence gained in his experimentation denounced his subjective opinion, he then forced his opinions to change. A decent man admits when he is wrong, and takes pains to rectify his misdeeds. Henry had not succeeded in life, when his grandson’s will superseded his own, but that did not mean his debts were wiped clean. Millie and John were owed reparation, but failing that, apologies were the least he could provide.

Henry gradually made headway with his theories. Experimental magic was always dangerous, especially when undertaken by a novice. It was impossible to judge his results without bias. He was quickly consumed by his work, and each venture brought him closer to breaking free from his prison. But no advancement came without risk. Whatever power kept him chained here could be the undoing of his very soul, if it was unravelled.

So it was with heavy heart that Henry bid the memory of his beloved Mother goodbye. If his scheme succeeded, he may well see her in actuality. But he suspected if he failed this attempt, he would not get a chance for another. His theoretical applications of science and witchcraft to the realm beyond life, with a blend of cross-culture magic and dogged determination, would not save him if his very soul was obliterated.

But cowardice had never been chief among his flaws. Henry allowed himself but a little time to kiss his newborn son’s tiny forehead, dance under a moonlit canopy with his darling Millie, listen to his father’s gentle recitation of classical works, and practice the piano under the careful eye of his mother. Henry greedily absorbed every detail he could from those precious moments. He very much doubted he would get another chance to experience them.

He could not know, when his finished potion slipped down his throat, and the sigil he had painted in his own blood glowed a familiar gold, just how correct he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for to everyone who has left such wonderful comments! I appreciate all your thoughts and am super flattered by your praise, and will respond to everyone individually when I have time to give you all the personal responses you deserve. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, it's so encouraging :)
> 
>  _Attention s'il vous plaît, mon petit chou;_ Attention please, my little cream puff.


	12. Mamma Mia Part III

It hadn’t taken Sam as long as he had expected it would, to make a decision, regarding merging with his future self. Dean assured him he had a little time to think it over. Amara would be able to keep a channel to that future open for a while. But Cas warned him that once the present diverged significantly from what Dean had experienced, that future would be lost. The universe couldn’t keep an alternate timestream open indefinitely. Their heads started ache somewhere around the time Cas tried to explain the difference between parallel universes, such as the one they had visited where magic did not exist, and alternate futures of their own universe, like the one Dean described, where the Croatoan virus had turned the world into a ruin while Lucifer stalked about in Sam’s skin. Suffice it to say, Sam couldn’t stall forever. He had to think about it before the option was forever off the table.

He _was_ tempted. Sam had no memories of his mother that weren’t some kind shadow-form of her, controlled by other forces. He’d never heard her speak, to laugh, scald or console him. He wanted so badly to see her face, to listen to her explain. Amara wouldn’t bring her back, again, but Sam still had the option of actually getting his wish. It was possible to at least have genuine memories of her. This was likely his only opportunity to ever learn about his mother in actuality, rather than in retrospect.

She’d been gone for so long. An empty hole in Sam’s life. Sometimes he’d wanted so badly to believe her death was something no one could have prevented. He’d wanted to forget her loss; this woman who had inspired so much devotion in his father that the man had been utterly consumed by it when she was ripped away from him. Because if it couldn’t be undone, he could leave, to live any kind of safe, healthy life. Free from darkness and danger. Free from obligation and hunting. As a young man Sam had needed to grieve like he was just any old regular Joe, who didn’t know that magic, the afterlife, monsters or gods, existed and could be bargained with. So that he could achieve his goal of freedom.

He’d cut all ties to his family, to the people who loved him smotheringly, devotedly. He'd forged on alone, determined to build a life built on ignorance and deception. Jess had been a wonderful girl, but when Sam thought back on it now, she could have been _any_ girl. She wasn’t some unparalleled ideal, perfect for him in every aspect. She wasn’t his one true love, or his soulmate. It wouldn’t have mattered, to God and his cupids, or any other cosmic force in the universe, if he’d fallen in love with her or Rebecca or any of the many other girls at his college. Azazel and the demon which had possessed Brady had chosen to push Jess towards him, because she was compassionate, and kind, and unsuspecting. She had an innocence they knew would appeal to him, because they’d shadowed him from afar, his entire life. But if it had failed, and Sam had somehow resisted her charms, they would have simply found another girl. But none of them, not Amelia, Jess, or any other romantic relationship, had managed to inspire in him the level of devotion he had for Dean. In the end, Sam always returned to his brother, and he knew he always would.

But it stings; the knowledge that he could have saved Jess at any point, if he had simply walked away. She could be out there now, bright and alive, rich, poor or anything in between; married or unattached, satisfied with her career or unfulfilled. None of those details mattered, in the grand scheme of things. She would have been alive. Safe. But Sam had ignored his visions. He’d ignored all of his father’s warnings, blinded by arrogant rage, frustrated by John’s reticence. And he’d ignored Dean, the only parent he had ever really known.

The cost of Sam’s idealised dreamworld had been too high. He’d betrayed Dean, who had given everything to keep him safe. And he’d lost Jess, who had died for her plain, uncomplicated version of love. His naivety had been burnt away in that fire, and he had followed in his father’s footsteps, ultimately no stronger in grief than the man he’d so despised as a teenager.

Dean had borne the brunt of Sam's pain and fury. Dean who had raised him, at the expense of himself. And now his brother was unable to relinquish that role, and Sam, for all his honest and stringent desire for independence, was loath to let him. He loved Dean, but it was a jealous possessive love; it had even mutilated the fabric of the universe. Neither of them were capable of letting go, and despite his slow grown self-awareness, Sam couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Throughout it all, Dean had been his rock, his parent, his sibling, his reason to fight. Sam couldn’t deny his misdeeds. He’d let Dean down in multitudes of ways. And he couldn’t often bring himself to admit it; that arrogance was still a part of him. But Sam could try to be better. To be more accommodating, when he disagreed with Dean’s reasoning. To attempt to reconcile himself to the past.

He wanted Dean and Cas, his family, safe from this new threat. He wanted to hunt. And he didn’t want to become the man who so easily had led Dean to lose the one person he loved on a par with Sam. Through distraction, emotional manipulation, or outright demand; it didn't matter what method future-Sam had employed. He knew he had to have done something, which had led Cas on the path to death. Dean still hadn't spoken of Cas dying, but whatever happened, it wasn’t _fated_. Nothing was, any more. It didn't have to happen again. Dean was prepared to scrub out a year for Cas- and so was Sam.

Mary was his mother, and he would always love her. No matter her flaws, he would have been happy to spend time with her, to learn about her, and introduce himself in return. But in a life full of complex, terrible choices, Sam was about to make one more. An equally harrowing choice, though it was one of inaction rather than the opposite. Because the only real benefit Sam could see, of bringing his alternate self back to join them, was a knowledge of Mary. And he _couldn’t_ do it.

He couldn’t risk Dean and Cas’ safety; not for his own personal gain. Because what if that future-Sam advocated for the British Men of Letters, and their tyrannical aspirations? What if he deceived Dean again, and it somehow resulted in Cas hurt or dead again? Dean would inevitably forgive him, again. And Sam would probably charge on, pretending he hadn’t damaged his brother irreparably. Their cycle of loss and betrayal would continue, and Cas would be gone.

Sam refused to allow himself to become that person. Not again. For once in his goddamn life, he was determined to place Dean’s well-being above his own. Not just Dean’s survival, but Dean’s actual emotional, and mental needs. Sam could easily imagine how his brother would soldier on, a broken shell. Pretending Cas’ death was just another loss. Sam couldn’t bear to stomach the mere thought of it. Dean deserved happiness, more than any other person in the world. And Sam was in the position to give him a little bit. The loss of Mary didn’t matter one whit in the face of that.

Mary was lost to him, as she always had been. The only difference being that Sam chose it, this time. Because Dean and Cas deserved his allegiance, more than a woman who shared his DNA, cared for him as a child, but was ultimately a stranger. Family didn’t just mean blood, after all. This time, Sam was going to support the family that he cherished the most. No regrets, no hesitations. Just a resolve, to repay a fraction of Dean’s limitless capacity for sacrifice, with _loyalty_.


	13. Mamma Mia Part IV

Crowley kept sharp eyes pinned on this mother from across the room. Her pinched little chin wobbled as she played up some crude sob story. She was spinning a fresh web of deceit for her latest victim, with crocodile tears and a convincing lip wobble. The irrelevant human she was succeeding to charm was a man, who was watching Rowena with big, sympathetic eyes. Her pathetic tale of woe had tugged on the chump’s heartstrings.

Crowley sneered, seething and bitter. His hearing was excellent, enhancing through the years, the more power he gained, just like his other demonic abilities. Her false words chafed him. What could she know of loneliness? Rowena thrived in solitary command. She had only ever looked out for herself. Crowley longed to tear that weak human’s heart out right then and there, in public. He craved the chance to offer it up to Rowena on a silver platter. It would be a great pleasure, to watch the harridan who birthed him scream. In indignation or fear; he wasn’t fussy about which. As long as she was screaming.

 Unfortunately, they had no time for such thrilling amusements. Lucifer was in the wind, and Crowley had no doubt about what that meant. None of his little spies had seen hide nor hair of him. But Lucifer would be coming for his kingdom. Crowley had no intention of rolling over and quietly handing it over. His crown, though he loathed it, was the reason he maintained his place on the board. Without the weight of Hell behind him, he was just another wretched demon. And he had fought too long and too hard to give up his power to a disgraced angel. Especially not one that had humiliated him.

But his reputation was in tatters. Crowley knew was in no position to get vengeance on many of his enemies. It was all he could do to maintain some power. Demons were, generally, idiotic, fickle creatures. Easily manipulated, quick to anger and with few redeeming qualities. Their subservience could not be relied on.

 Lucifer must be dealt with, before he could raise an army of his own. Unlike the Winchesters, or even Mother herself, Lucifer would not try to avoid confrontation with him. His best defence was to take the beast in hand, now. Crowley prided himself on his abilities as a strategist. He was the only one who quietly built up his power, brick by brick, whilst Azazel, Lilith, Abaddon and all the rest squabbled and stomped over humanity, in an effort to prove their dominance. Crowley’s schemes were far more subtle. He was the one who always survived, the cockroach that crawled from the wreckage, ready to take command.

If he didn’t have command of Hell, there was no place for Crowley anywhere. No ally he could rely on with any consistency. He had to carve that spot of safety for himself. Hell was the closest realm to a refuge that he had. And he would never have it if Lucifer was out there, unfettered. Of course, capturing Lucifer also had the added benefit of allowing him to seek revenge for the humiliation he had suffered under the archangel’s thumb.

Though he would deny it with malice, and rip out the innards of anyone who tried to claim so, his addiction to human blood had changed him. Crowley would never be a kind soul, since he lacked the aforementioned holy appendage in the first place, but he was no longer just a boiling vat of rage, only finding pleasure in outwitting enemies. Softer feelings, repressed and denied, still bubbled up in him, shuttered and locked away, but still there. There was a piece of him that twisted with apprehension when Gavin had been in Abaddon’s clutches. An even bigger piece that rebelled, nauseous as they sent Dean Winchester to his death. He’d nearly let out an audible sigh of relief when the plaid-clad hunter returned, safe and sound. Only Mother’s presence had stopped him. He refused to give her any more ammunition against him.

The shrew in question glared at him as he slid up to her table, wide bottle in hand, and cunningly injected himself into the conversation. He could tell Rowena would rather claw out the eyes of his favourite meat-suit than consent to work with him, but as always, he had the upper hand. Her revulsion was never more obvious than when she spat out insults, but curiously, she claimed to want no more to do with Lucifer or any grand schemes.

Crowley didn’t bother paying much attention to her lies. Mother was like a hellhound that caught a scent. She would never stop, not unless she was put down. On the off chance that she cared for the schmuck, he made Mother an offer, in his usual charming manner.

She could accompany him in his quest to contain Lucifer, or she could see her newest plaything become a sheesh kebab. The venom in her eyes spoke volumes more than her forked tongue ever would, but Crowley continued to paid it no mind. No poisonous harpy was going to get the best of him. Not even Mother. Hell might be a sewer of despair and misery, but it was his sewer of misery, damn it. It was all he had, and he was going to fucking keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to Egypt for three weeks, starting next Monday. Can't promise any updates before/during that time :) Have a lovely summer everyone!


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